"I would expect nothing less than a solid-face beating," Clint said soberly. He could do that, because, given that it was so early in the night, he, too, was still sober, although his mind had just begun to become pleasantly fuzzy. He'd always had a pretty shitty tolerance for alcohol, even after years of palling around with the likes of Tony and Jess, but he'd done enough drinking that it would certainly take more than just this one bottle to do anything, especially since they were sharing it.
Clint snatched the phone from the air and flipped her the bird right back. That was one good thing about all his stupid shows: his reflexes were sharp even when he was tipsy. Which was definitely an advantage whenever they played the kinds of drinking games that required reflexes, not that he played those much. Like Jess, Clint preferred the more private kind of drinking, the kind you could do behind a locked door with a friend. He keyed a few requests of his own into the phone -- bourbon, naturally; better stuff than Jess was getting, since it'd be less likely to knock him down the next morning -- and then sent off the order for delivery.
"It's sweet of them," Clint said, casting his eyes down a little, familiar shame. "Just not, y'know, realistic." He took another swig and passed the bottle back, then said, "You beat on any particular faces lately, Jones? Know that's your favorite thing."
He doubted it, of course. Loose cannon that she was, Clint knew that she was smart enough not to draw too much attention to herself, even if she did love to wrack assholes' faces.